


Semi-Conscience

by Linksfraulein



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Torn between good and evil, manslaughter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linksfraulein/pseuds/Linksfraulein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Think the alluring, yet morally ambiguous, world of a trashy soap - all backstabbing, status-seeking and wandering eyes. In this one, Erik is rumoured to be the part-time fling of Sebastian Shaw, though nobody in their company knows for certain - least of all Charles, who's tempted to try it on with Erik, but not until he's been properly clued up about the nature of their affiliation. While squabbling with Shaw one night after the staff Christmas function, Charles attempts to assert himself - only to end up accidentally killing his rival. Hiding the body in a water tank behind his house, Charles now faces indecision in its ugliest form; ripped between the angel on one shoulder, who wants him to face the consequences of such an incident, and the demon on the other, who dreads the thought of everyone, including Erik, thinking that he committed the crime on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semi-Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first stab at fanfiction writing, so please go easy on me! I intend to write four chapters in total. Here's the first one in the meantime. Will try to get the remaining three up as quickly as possible, though some of them are going through endless rewrites. I'm a perfectionist at heart, and while I understand that a fanfic doesn't need to be a masterpiece, I figure that so long as I'm trying my hand, I might as well do the best that I can with it.

If Charles was being kind, he would’ve said that the Christmas party had been pretty underwhelming.

Not that there was ever cause to expect anything more. He never knew why he still tried. Few things attached to his current load had seen the bright lights of overwhelming for some time. With his services at the university having sluggishly overtaken the decade-mark in September, every leftover face in his immediate circle had become content to settle into one rigid routine. He recalled the days when social gatherings of any occasion were an engine of merriment, erupting a fountain of anecdotes to chortle over by the water cooler for months to come. Now only a few pastimes remained, and were usually over at the same pace as the brewing of a latté. Charles was abashed to say that he knew this as an authorised fact. An especially droning workday this week had encouraged him to kill some minutes by actually timing the difference just to be sure – solidifying, above all else, exactly how grey his most recent activity had become.

Couple of drinks, couple of greetings at the door, couple of rambling, dull stories to which he’d already been subjected multiple times. After each segment drew to a close, you could often guess how many seconds would escape before the next was announced, and rarely be too far off. Finally, an obligatory round of Secret Santa, where he’d always be handed some thoughtless gift – one that screamed last-minute – for which he’d never find any practical use. Sometimes a hideous necktie that he wouldn’t be seen dead in, other times a garish knick-knack to go on his bureau, which simply reminded him of the dinky knock-offs that his mother used to collect, and as far as he knew still did. On his last hometown visit, there must’ve been fifty to one hundred models in her living room alone. He was reminded of that bizarre reality show _Hoarders_ any time he entered her abode, and wondered if associating her name with that private universe could really be considered an exaggeration.

Though to be fair, last year he’d opened a gift not just practical, but beguilingly attractive; a huge, glossy martini glass of a bluish tinge, flawlessly adorned with a loop of sparkling white dust around the rim. There was something that had since enjoyed a generous run. Was nice to know that every few years or so, somebody who actually knew him would receive his name in the anonymous hand-out.

This year the party was being held at the three-storey mansion of Hank McCoy, cocky young leader of the fiction department, who loved his classes and boasting about them in equal measure, along with any other passing fad that had captured his interest for the week. Charles liked Hank – he was a social climber but made no bones about it. The type of seedling who would abandon his previous interests in a heartbeat if a new one had the potential to score him popularity points. Charles could justify the trappings of a way of life that he’d never personally embrace, as long as the participant involved was at least upfront about their motives. He’d spent more than enough time rolling around on the floor, figuratively and otherwise, with other people who insisted on going through just about every euphemism in the dictionary. Hank, on the other hand, not only acknowledged his soft spot for backscratching, he regarded it as a talent that should be openly commended. If everybody at the college was to suddenly buy a scooter as part of some radical new statement, he’d buy three. If they were back to cars the following week, he wouldn’t see it as money lost, because it had qualified him as hot while the trend was in session. A shimmer of that, with all of the verve that community acceptance implied, was worth the prospect of leaving a pricey new toy to grow fur in the garage.

Anyway, he never needed to pay for a lot of things himself. He’d descended from some big-wheel dynasty who were, as Charles understood the definition, rolling in it. He never ceased to marvel at the common practises of that crowd. The luxury of throwing out an expensive piece of equipment that was still in perfect working condition, just because they could. The dearest indulgence that Charles had allowed himself recently was hiring somebody to fix the broken **CTRL** key on his laptop, then downloading a new typeface font to celebrate. One that was never employed in any standard day-to-day document, and cost around $45 American, but he just liked the shape of it. So he bought it, the first purchase that he’d made for himself in months, not counting hygiene products. Or booze, which he never counted under any circumstances. He drank quite a bit. He’d concede that before he’d allow anybody else the chance to.

He’d taken Hank under his wing when the peppy youth had first applied for a job at the school, fresh off the plane from a family holiday in Singapore. Charles had been needing an assistant for some time, and noticing Hank’s devotion to reaching the top through even the lowliest means, concluded him to be the perfect candidate for running errands and fetching coffee with almost zero bitching, though his inborn gabbiness was less easily minimised. Right off the bat, Charles could measure the impending headaches on-sight as the Richter scale measures an earthquake, but behind the ranking positions and status quo, a fragile friendship had developed. At the start of the party, and pretty much all through it, Charles sat in the corner drinking beer and talking to Hank, the one place were he felt safe. If anything, it wouldn’t be a hyperbole to call them the last two scholars on campus who’d maintained an amicable rapport. Everybody else relished any opportunity to unsheathe the claws, particularly over the latest amount of yearly resignations – and, in turn, apportioned blame. In an institute of cost-cutting, there was always plenty of that to go around.

Which is why it was a shame that whenever given the job of holding an annual function at their own residence, the victim couldn’t keep it invite-only. This semester had seen the arrival of Sebastian Shaw, a gabby New Yorker with a head very much like a Big Apple, and a tendency to be cocky in a manner far less endearing than Hank. He’d shown up to the party that night on the arm of a good-looking stranger named Erik Lensherr, play-acting the white knight rolling in on his stead with a trophy wench latched around his waist.

Charles did _not_ like Shaw. He too was an heir, but not the sort that you felt comfortable around, if that in itself was even possible. In fact, he boasted an ancestry even more ample than Hank’s, and was about as considerate towards others as a homeless cat burglar. He’d first appeared in their jungle mid-August, enthralling all in his presence with his natural charisma and big talk of new ideas. Since then he’d cancelled some of Charles’ favourite rallies, calling them time-wasting; downsized some of his favourite departments, calling him showy (considering the source, _that_ was rich); and perhaps most unforgivably, eliminated some of his favourite games at the staff barbeques, calling him juvenile – until there was nothing left to await but the dreaded couple-of-drinks/couple-of-greetings pattern. He was another reason why Charles’ job had had every last iota of fun sucked right out of it. But he was so disgustingly charming, nobody ever seemed to stay mad at him. He had a knack for worming his way into any good book, bar one. Fellow tutors loved his innate style and determined gusto.

He also owned that irresistable factor that people crudely referred to as “quirkiness”. There were days when he’d literally walk through classroom corridors speaking to students through a megaphone, just because. He had a loud, grating voice, and everything that he said drove Charles nuts. He had a mouth like a runaway train, and an irritating habit of squealing, “Well, _fuck_ my ass and call me Francine!” whenever surprised. Charles cringed every time he heard it. It was so unnecessary. He wasn’t prissy about swearing. In fact he was quite partial to vulgarity in humour; it spiced up a joke and made it less forgettable. Hell, given the right leverage, it could even make for perceptive banter; he’d seen _Glengarry, Glen Ross_ about three times. And it was therapeutic to indulge in under duress, that was undeniable. If ever asked to name his favourite expletive, it was hard to go past “Jesus fucking Christ” – hard consonant at the end, plus blasphemy. But goddamnit, was it so much to ask for the context to work? In Shaw’s case, he was simply invaded by a plethora of highly unwelcome images. It didn’t take a lot to surprise Shaw either, and his trademark cry often sounded more like a genuine request than an empty exclamation. It made Charles’ skin crawl to think of Shaw’s handsome date hearing it with the most frequency, and in a way that was (gulp) meant.

Charles burped under his breath and raised a beer to his lips, watching Shaw’s escort loiter aimlessly on the other side of the room. He was leaning against a tall sculpture, one of those distorted figures that somehow counted as art, allowing his head to roll listlessly over the misplaced curves of its waxy formation. Charles would’ve said that he’d make a great ornament himself. His hair was a dirty copper, his chiselled face both stern and quietly amused. He didn’t walk with a swagger, but had a walk that Charles wouldn’t mind following around. His trousers were rather tight aswell, and that radiated even more inviting appeal. Of everybody in the room he appeared to be doing the least amount of smiling, not that Charles held any grudge on that behalf. There wasn’t a lot here to smile about. Shaw had left the guy to his own devices while he worked the room to mingle with co-workers, and his hanger-on seemed to be fitting the part of the convenience wallflower quite obligingly. Occasionally he slid from one group to another, but only for seconds at a time, never joining in on any reindeer games. Mostly he just stayed put. He carried a cigarette in one hand, and the same dark smoke seemed to hug him whichever direction he turned in.

“Makes me sick,” Charles muttered with a shake of the head, finding himself annoyed that the room wouldn’t shake with it. He was up to his fifth beer. It said a lot about their supplies that he could go through that many cans in an hour, and still be unburdened by the slightest touch of light-headedness.

“What you on about?” Hank said. He was smoking aswell, but only puffed on the damn thing rather than inhaled. He’d heard somewhere that cigarettes would not pollute your lungs if you spat out the cloud quickly enough to keep your throat perimeter unpassed. Just roll it around on your tongue momentarily, he’d orate to anybody game enough to lend an ear, savour the flavour, then let it out. At least that’s what he claimed, but he was always claiming something. It sounded like first-rate BS to Charles. For one thing, the lungs were not the only organ at risk. Hank’s method sounded like a foolproof journey to tongue cancer if ever there was one. But there was no point trying to call attention to this. He could be the most tenacious son of a bitch, especially regarding the self-inflictions from which he earned his peer approval. Truth was, Charles didn’t believe that he particularly enjoyed smoking. Just another obstinate penance that he exercised in order to fit in. His choice. Which would be fine if it didn’t look so dumb, a grown man sucking on a fag as if it were a Tootsie Pop. If you had to smoke, Charles thought, do it properly. Hank’s lungs were still virgin, along, Charles was willing to bet, with the rest of him. On the other hand, if Erik saw them, he might come over for a light.

“I’m on about Shaw’s new guy,” Charles said, pointing briefly at the man in question.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. He looks like quite a catch.”

“But you just said that he makes you sick.”

“No, I didn’t say that _he_ does. What makes me sick is who he came with. I hate that rich, powerful snobs can snag attractive playthings who would ordinarily be way out of their league. Just imagine if Shaw didn’t have the money or connections or public persona that he does. Do you really think that Erik would pass him a second glance on the street?”

“Why are you talking like that’s some big newsflash? That’s how it’s always been, man. The rich and powerful can date anybody that they want. You say that like it’s never happened before.”

“I don’t care how many times it’s happened. It loses none of its weirdness. Or grotesquery, come to that. Look at that stupid catchphrase that Shaw has. Anybody who says things like that is bound to be into something weird. I dread to think what Erik is subjected to on a case-by-case basis.”

“Please, they probably never have sex. Shaw wouldn’t have the time. He works ten-hour days and would be knackered by the time he got home. We all know how these things go. His new buddy would hate his schedule, but not the amount of moolah that it rakes in. Yet in a few years’ time he’ll be divorcing him, on the grounds that he’s too focused on his career. You know, the same career that he’s wallowed in every benefit of until then. And which he’ll then think that he’s entitled to half of.”

“Boy, you’ve really set them a shining future.”

“Like you said, it’s all for show. Why else would he be with him – fame and security. For the same reason, how else is the rest of their relationship gonna wrap up. Bitter and buck-passing.”

Charles coughed. “Well now, we don’t even know for sure that they’re _in_ a relationship.”

“A second ago you were commenting on the grotesquery of their sex life.”

“If they have one, yeah. But we don’t know for sure that they do. I haven’t seen them touch or kiss.”

“Guys don’t usually get slobbery with each other in public, man. We all know that there are social directives to abide by, whatever century we’re in.”

“I’m not talking about slobbering. I’m just talking about the basic affection that you tend to see between couples. You know, chemistry. They don’t seem to have it. So, you know, Erik might just be a mate. Shaw might’ve been without a date tonight, and didn’t wanna go alone. Got Erik to fill in. That would make more sense. They don’t really have that ‘couple’ look about them.”

“They don’t have it, or you don’t _want_ them to have it?”

That was certainly a fair question. It was true that Charles had a way of inventing alternate stories for himself when he’d rather not face an unpleasant fact. By all sound logic, Erik had to be the latest squeeze of Shaw; the guy never shied from putting those on display whenever he had a new one. But until he beheld concrete evidence of that likelihood, he’d file through every other possibility that his brain was capable of offering. 

“And why the hell wouldn’t Shaw have anybody else to go with?” Hank was saying. “You said it yourself, rich people can get anybody.”

“But not to love them. Even if they are going out, it might not be serious.” Charles was surprisingly persistent when it came to things that he was probably never going to have.

“And you’re going to change all of that, right? Rock up and save the day? Sweep this guy off his feet and save him from the miserable marriage that’s going nowhere?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve barely stopped looking at him ever since he got here. I’ve been watching you all night, and you’ve been watching him. Christ, if I had feelings for you they would be hurt.”

Charles laughed. “Good thing we don’t have feelings.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Get on with what?”

“Go over there.”

Charles realised that he’d been waiting for it to be said for a while. Now that it finally had, he was taken aback. “I can’t just walk up to him.”

“Why not? He’s not with anybody. He might even be lonely. Shaw’s dug his own grave here. You don’t drag your prize-winning wife along to a party and then leave her alone all night. You must know that she’ll end up seeking comfort elsewhere.”

“Would you stop with the whole marriage thing? Here, hold this.” Charles gave him his beer. A part of him was almost ashamed to be seen drinking it, and he wanted to avoid all manner of visual embarrassments right now. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Keep an eye on Shaw for me. If he suddenly spots us and heads over to see what I’m doing with his guy – if that is indeed who Erik is – send me a text. I’ll leave as soon as my phone goes off.”

“You’re afraid of Shaw?”

“No, I’m just not in the mood for confrontation.”

“Lord knows, this party has been lacking drama.”

“I’d never want to give him the credit of being the one who livened it up. The idea of him being a hero would kill me. He has too many damn things to boast about as it is.”

Hank whacked him good-naturedly on the back as he departed, perhaps a little harder than Charles thought necessary. “Good on you mate. Break a leg.”

“Thanks.”

Charles’ ears began to heat up as he tried, in the most nonchalent way he could manage, to stroll over to his target. He noticed that Erik didn’t have a drink on him. He wondered if he should’ve brought one over. But then, there wasn’t a single one here that would take the edge off. Charles’ stomach had been grumbling for over an hour, by virtue of the fact that nothing on show was worth ingesting. During a previous year the guests would be fed profusely; sausage rolls, exotic fruits, mountains of potato chips, and even one or two ice cream truffles adorning every table. Now it was asparagus rolls, almonds, bowls of angel pasta, and the occasional plate of thinly-sliced beef – anything to quell hunger for all of ten minutes, only to see it rise up again with a vengeance. And the beer. Even the safety net to which Charles and Hank could once resort had been altered into something weaker. If one took a buzz saw to the school’s events since Admiral Chaps entered the scene, a pivotal artery would discharge the word _placid_ , and in fairly large, congealing letters.

But he continued on his beeline, telling himself that it was primarily out of decency. His first thought had been partially true – it was awfully inconsiderate, abandoning your suitor in a place where he won’t know anyone. As if his impression of this whole atmosphere wouldn’t be leaving enough to be desired. Charles was unable to avoid a look at the food table as he passed it, and nearly gagged. Some of the sliced meat was already attracting minor units of six-legged carpet life, and a ring of dried fat stood out on the pasta bowl.

“Hello,” was all he could say upon arrival.

Erik looked away from the painting that he’d been admiring. Or distracting himself with, whichever chewed up more time. His eyes were green, which was supposed to be one of the most seductive and knee-weakening hues in the palette. Then again, green was also the colour of snot, of puke, of worsening sickness; of blossoming mould and rotting surfaces. It occurred to Charles that for all of the enticement on show, there really was nothing behind somebody’s face but a wall of secretions, every pigment of which had their less pleasant relatives. Brown was the colour of mud, hazel the colour of shit, blue the colour of bruising; or that watery, unidentified fluid that actors poured into nappies to prove their absorbency in those daft commercials. Charles was just beginning to ponder what the hell that stuff was – and why they always used it (why not use actual piss?) – before Erik smiled at him, and the aforementioned knee-weakening infiltrated Charles with a little more effect than he would’ve liked to consent. In that moment he wanted him utterly, and suddenly saw himself on top of him in the darkest hour of night. On a plane, at the back of an alley, in the suite of some high-class hotel. Any hotel. Just one that kept the plonk copious and at least one mirror on the ceiling.

“Hello,” Erik replied, pleasantly enough, though not without a hint of suspicion crossing his countenance. Charles deduced him to be the kind of person who wasn’t normally approached at shindigs without the invader wanting something that he wasn’t prepared for.

As such, his new contestant decided to hang back and start with the basics. “Charles Xavier,” came the opening, followed by an earnest offer of the left hand.

Erik shook it. “Yeah, I know. ‘The role model’.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what a few people here have been calling you. They say you’re the example-setter. Or try to be.”

“Is that what ‘they’ say?”

“Oh it’s meant as a compliment. You seem to be a big fixture in their lives.”

 _That’s because I_ have _been a big fixture in their lives. For the past ten-years plus, to be precise. Every other tutor who started here when I did was smart enough to abandon ship years ago._ But to Erik he said, “Uh- _huh_. And you are?”

“Erik.”

Charles readied himself to say _Erik…?_ , but bit down on that. Bit down hard. It was not generally understood that if a person refrained from giving their surname in an introduction, it was because they were uncomfortable doing otherwise, and didn’t appreciate being elbowed about it. Ruining your chances 101. If he could differ from Erik’s past try-outs in any way, that was something to be proud of. Besides, he already knew his surname. Par for the course in having gossipy colleagues – there really was so little that you couldn’t find out, party-bound especially, in two minutes or less.

Charles put his hands in his pockets and sniffed. “Are you having a good time?”

“No.”

“No? That sucks. That’s awful. What don’t you like?”

“The people.”

“You hate the people?”

“Not hate. They’re just so bloody dull.” He dipped his head in Charles’ direction. “‘Cept you I’m sure, Chuck.”

“Just Charles, if you don’t mind.”

“Excuse me.”

“But I agree. Dull they are. The sad thing is that it didn’t used to be like this. Back in the day when some of the old team was here, we used to have get-togethers that you’d talk a blue streak about.”

“Well by all means,” Erik spread his hands outward. “Let loose.”

“What’s that?”

“Give me a yarn.”

This caught Charles off guard. It wasn’t the response that he usually got. Mostly he was just met with a lengthy whistle or sigh of awe. He’d never encountered someone who seemed to want proof that it really took place.

He felt his face warming up. “Well I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but…I mean I couldn’t do them justice, trying to verbalise them. That’s how big they were. I’ve never been good at telling stories. Some of the things...you really did have to be there.”

Erik looked at him curiously. Charles sensed that he was blowing it. He desperately tried to recall something from his lectures with which he could beef up the talk. One of the reasons why he favoured pouring through hefty textbooks was because it provided a kind of social glue – he could whip out random facts whenever there was an unpleasant gap in conversation, like there was now. How typical that at a time when he needed one of those helpers the most, they were nowhere to be found. But maybe it was just as well. To the best of his knowledge, it might not ooze sharpness or sophistication – or more crucially, sex appeal – to go from failing to recall a brilliant story about his past shenanigans, to suddenly blurting out that a female mouse could have up to 32 babies in her lifetime.

More than anything, he resisted the urge to ask the only thing that he really cared about – _Are you and Shaw going steady?_ – which was naggingly sitting there, the proverbial gorilla at the tea party, patiently waiting to be brought up. He wondered if Erik could tell that he wanted to ask it. To allay any further suspicion he found himself stupidly asking, “Want to hear a joke?”

“Let’s have it.”

“What do you call a cow with no legs?”

Erik stared at him tolerantly. “A Big Mac.”

 _Damnit_ , Charles thought. His mind raced. He suddenly realised that he needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to risk leaving. Erik wasn’t going to be free all night. Then, at the thought of heading to a separate part of the house, it suddenly hit him.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Since you’re not liking this party, let me try and give you one decent memory of it. Come with me and I’ll show you something cool.”

“What is it?”

“Just follow me, I’ll show you.”

“Show me here.”

“I can’t, I can’t tell you about it. You need to see it.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“You’re not leaving, you’re just shifting to a different room. It won’t take long man, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

To his relief, Erik obeyed, albeit with an air of reluctance that he was unable to hide. They snaked through the throng of chatting friends and bosses until reaching an empty white hallway. Charles led him towards a winding staircase at the end.

“How long have you known Shaw?” he piped up. Surely there was no harm – or anything too obvious – in asking that.

“’Bout five years.”

 _Christ!_ Charles thought dejectedly. _Five years of ‘Fuck my arse and call me Francine’? How the hell have you survived? More pressingly, how has he?_

 _It_ has _to be a friendship. Has to be. No way could you date Shaw for that entire period and still find the will to get up in the morning. Besides, Shaw’s not the kind of guy who likes to be tied down. Most of the time he goes through toy boys like water from a tap. Within a fortnight you’ll be yesterday’s news. Unless, maybe, he’s decided to put all of that behind him because he’s crazy about you, but why do I have trouble believing that Shaw has the capacity for that breed of tenderness…goddamnit, what’s the 411? Say something a little more illuminating!_

But all he vocalised was, “That’s a while.”

“Mm-hmm.”

And that was the end of that. It suddenly occurred to Charles that this would’ve been why Shaw liked him. Nothing turned on a chatterbox more than a reticent ear. It was virtually the only type of partner that they were capable of engaging with. They needed somebody who didn’t mind sitting there and remaining silent while they continued to sing their own praises. Or bemoan their latest relationship crisis.

_That’s gotta be why he’s been around for five years. He’s obviously one of those loyal friends who sticks by you through every stupid mistake you make, ready with a shoulder to cry at the slightest sign of suffrage. Never judges, never berates, never says anything out of order. Just smiles, nods, stays out of your business, and comes locked and loaded with all the right “Oh, I know what you mean...” padding whenever you need it. The wingman that every player dreams of having on standby._

They climbed the steps until they ended up in a darker corridor.

“Do you like animals?” asked Charles.

“Sure.”

“All kinds of animals?”

“’Part from snakes and lizards, I s’pose.”

“Fair enough.”

He took him to a larger room where a huge metal cage sat next to a window. Charles unhooked a small wire opening at the bottom, then stuck his hand inside.

“This,” he said as he withdrew himself, “is Snoop. He’s Hank’s most prized possession.”

Curled around his forearm was a beautiful ring-tailed lemur. He wasn’t quite fully grown. His pale grey fur was still its lightest shade, and he was no bigger than an adolescent housecat. He clung to Charles’ elbow with his soft black paws, before climbing up his bicep and across his shoulders.

Erik regarded the animal carefully. “Didn’t know that you could keep those as pets.”

“It’s not recommended. They’re a hell of a mint to buy, and difficult to look after. There’s an extensive waiting period if you want one, and a lot of signatures have to be signed and red tape to be cleared. You have to send for them, after all. You can’t get one just by popping down to the pet store. But Hank’s grandparents took care of it. They got the money. It was a birthday present to Hank a few years back.”

Erik cocked an eyebrow. “For real?”

“Yeah. I guess money forces people to be a bit more creative. Hard to know what to give a guy who already has everything.” He reached behind his head and scratched Snoop under the chin, earning a happy-sounding squeak in return. “He sure is cute, isn’t he?”

“Lovely.”

“Go ahead. Pat him.” Charles continued scratching. “He’s a good fellow. Won’t hurt you. He’s used to people coming in and cooing over him.”

Erik reached out and patted the lemur.

“Here.” Charles took a few grapes from next to his cage. “Wanna feed him?”

Together they sat and played with the creature while listening to the distinctive drone of aimless conversation going on downstairs. Charles felt like he was beginning to fall back into his own – the same rhythm of ease which allowed him to keep a lecture going for a solid forty minutes. Soon they’d struck the right groove that he’d been hoping to capture originally, nattering by the cage while Snoop happily munched on his grapes. He should’ve known. When in doubt, always distract somebody with a fluffy critter, preferably living.

“Do they really call me ‘the role model’?” he piped up.

Erik stiffened. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re one of the oldest people in your wing?”

“No, that’s wrong.”

“Oh?”

“I _am_ the oldest person in my wing.”

Erik nodded. “Perhaps that has something to do with it?”

“Can’t imagine that being my new moniker for any other reason.”

“Sebastian told me that some of your best friends used to work here.”

“That’s true, that is what Sebastian told you,” Charles muttered, suddenly annoyed at the casual way in which Erik was using his name, like they’d been married for over thirty years. Perhaps Hank’s prediction hadn’t been too far off the beam after all.

“That must suck,” Erik said.

“What?”

“That all of your favourite people have left the school.”

Charles shrugged. “I get to pin a senior tag to my shirt.”

“Aren’t you ever tempted to join them?”

“All the time. Just can’t seem to find any place nearby that could be considered an upgrade.”

And, he was sorry to say, luck was never on his side. His confidantes had had more of that when it came to their departures. By contrast, providence always found a way to impede him whenever he gave any thought to leaving, whether through his car busting a gauge, his fridge undergoing a meltdown, or a friend getting sick and needing money for antibiotics. With all due respect, though, a part of him was still attracted to the comfort of familiarity. At one point two months ago, the board had simply broken down in hysteria, wailing that they couldn’t afford to lose Charles because they’d had so many farewell letters already. So they’d offered to increase his salary if he gave them at least three more years. Being the sucker that he was, he’d complied. Interestingly, he was yet to see that plumper figure reveal so much as a smile between the barriers of his bank account. Yet the call of routine had tugged on his sleeve more heavily than the package which they’d dangled before him, so maybe he got what he deserved.

As Snoop leapt into his lap, aiming to grab the fruit out of his hand, Charles decided to take one last shot at evaluating Erik’s love life indirectly. “Do you have any pets of your own?” he said. If he and Shaw had been sharing a place for that previously stated five years, then surely his name would have to come up here.

But to his dismay, before Erik had a chance to reply, a familiar grating voice descended from the stairs.

“ _Erik_!” it boomed. “Where the hell are you?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“God, I’ve been yelling forever!”

Erik shot Charles an interesting look then, something not quite recognisable at first glance – a sort of twisted cross between being apologetic and extending concordance, as if the two of them had just shared a private joke that Shaw wasn’t yet in on. That was a start, Charles supposed. But it passed almost as quickly as it had appeared, and a moment later the man himself stormed into the room, carrying all of the arrogance and anticipated arrival of a visiting monarch.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he claimed.

“Here I am.”

“I’m ready to go now. What’s happening here?”

“Just meeting a friend of Hank’s.”

Shaw caught sight of the furry companion on Charles’ lap.

“Wow,” he said delicately. “That looks wonderfully illegal.”

“Didn’t mean to keep you, Erik,” Charles said, ignoring Shaw.

“Not at all.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Shaw declared. “Be sure to wash your hands if you’ve been touching that thing.” He left.

Erik took a moment to mouth the word _Sorry_ at Charles. Then he stood. “Thanks for the nature ramble,” he said. “You’re a nice guy, Chuck. I’ll be seeing ya.”

For a moment Charles felt almost insulted. He wasn’t overly fond of the word _nice_. As he could see from Shaw’s criteria, niceness may have been useful in the best of all possible worlds, but if so, the one in which they were living was certainly not one of them. Come to think of it, almost none of the chief administrators at the school were nice. But they could nab whichever candy they eyed up, oh yes. _Nice_ was right up there with “I like you as a friend” and “We ought to see other people; we’ve both got a lot of living to do”. By living, of course, they seemed to mean compromising themselves at every given opportunity. So many of Charles’ cronies appeared to want someone who was going to cause them strife. In an age of wild abandon being depicted as the new Rhodes scholarship – and that was just the media – sex and danger went hand-in-hand like piece of mind and insurance premiums. By contrast, Charles noticed things. He felt things. And he had a heart that could go on beating long after its activator had left his presence. Erik, meanwhile, had disappeared out of the room.


End file.
